


After the Dance

by EnduringChill



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, John's Wedding, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5198273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to Baker Street after John's wedding when an expected visitor turns up</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callie4180](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie4180/gifts).



> Let me preface this with - this is not very good. I had an idea this morning to gift something to Callie4180. Luckily a train delay helped get most of this out. It was the best I could do in such a short time. Next year, I will plan better! Hope you have/had a great birthday and this brought a small smile to your face.
> 
> Thank you to 221bjen for her quick beta work.

 

Sherlock sinks into John’s chair, noting that the doctor’s scent has been fading. Soon, it will be gone. Though he hopes that Mrs. Hudson is not right, Sherlock knows that things will change with the baby.

 

For the past few months, it has been the three of them planning the wedding. And Sholto aside, everything had been flawless. The flowers, the food - everything.

 

Sherlock regards the single malt scotch in his glass. He wonders what would have happened if they had finished the bottle on John's stag night. Would he have confessed? The words had dangled on the tip of his tongue, very nearly slipping onto the rug between them. Would it have made a difference?

 

He pulls at the tie to loosen the knot at his neck. The reception should be over, and Dr. And Mrs. Watson will be heading to Spain for their sex holiday. Sherlock tips his head back to finish the scotch. Hearing heavy steps on the stairs, he turns his head toward the door. They sound like John’s, but that's impossible.

 

But in thirty seconds time, it is John Watson walking through the threshold, still in his morning coat and tie.

 

“You left,” he accuses while catching his breath.

 

“I was certain I had fulfilled my duties as best man. I was your witness, gave a speech, played your first dance and even managed to solve a crime. All in a day's work.” Sherlock shrugs casually as he tries to read John.

 

Ingested two pieces of cake. Shoes are pinching his left foot by the way he stands. Cheeks are flushed. Ran to the door. Has something important to say by clenching hand.

 

“Yes, but you missed the cake, and the final dance.” John gestures to Sherlock's empty seat. “May I?”

 

“By all means.” He watches John carefully before glancing to the door. “Is Mary parking the car?”

 

A tight smile pulls at John's lips. His blue eyes ice over and darken like a winter sea. “Not exactly.”

 

Sherlock sits up straight. “Tell me what's happened?”

 

John grabs Sherlock's glass and the bottle beside his red chair. Pouring a very healthy glass, he takes a gulp that certain to burn. He closes his eyes for a ten seconds before handing the tumbler to Sherlock. When his eyes open, there is a sense of calm on his face.

 

“Mary is in jail.”

 

Sherlock nearly drops the glass. “Come again?”

 

The tight smile returns. “You almost solved the case. The photographer wasn't working alone. He was contracted by someone who couldn't get her hands dirty.”

 

“Mary?” Sherlock frowns. He had known there was something about John’s fiancée that he didn't trust, but he had discounted those feelings for his own jealousy.

 

“Yes, apparently Sholto was to testify about faulty body armour and the company could lose its government contracts. Plus, it was a bit personal,” John says gravely.

 

Sherlock swallows hard. “Because you and…”

 

John looks up. “Nothing ever happened. It would have immediate dismissal for both of us.”

 

Sherlock's heart races. “But you wanted to.”

 

John nods slowly. “I did, but it was never explored.”

 

Sherlock traces the lines in the cloth chair. “She must have felt threatened.”

 

“She had no reason to, not from James. Yes, we had something between us back then, but that was years ago. We'd both moved on.” John stands suddenly. He grabs the glass from Sherlock to take another hearty sip before handing it back. “Sholto wasn't the only one.”

 

Sherlock blinks his eyes rapidly. “You mean...me?”

 

John nods slowly. “We uncovered her plans.”

 

Sherlock frowns. “We?”

 

John takes a deep breath. “Mycroft came to me with a flash drive containing the real Mary Morstan. She's actually been five different people. Amelia with US special forces. Gertrude with CIA. Rachel with an elite branch of Interpol. Abigail on her own as a contract killer.”

 

He eases himself into Sherlock's chair.

 

Slowly Sherlock shakes his head. “How did I not see it?”

 

“She was extremely good at covering her tracks. She was a pro.”

 

Sherlock's head snaps up. “I'm a professional! This is what I do for living! I should have seen this.” His eyes narrow. “Why did Mycroft go to you?”

 

“He had a job for me to do. Both US and British government had been chasing her for years due to her association with many crime organisations.” John pauses.

 

“Even Moriarty,” Sherlock mutters. Of course that was what brought Mary into their lives.

 

John shifts forward to sit at the edge of the chair. “Mycroft was worried what her plans were, so he asked for my help because she would never suspect me.”

 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sherlock asks.

 

“Why did you jump?” John asks softly.

 

“To keep you safe,” Sherlock whispers.

 

John’s hand cups Sherlock’s knee tenderly. “I wanted to tell you, I really did. Mycroft insisted that you would never let me go through with it if you had known.”

 

Sherlock has so many questions to ask, but his head is fuzzy from the scotch and the reality that John is here and not traveling to a sex holiday. John’s hand has not moved from his knee, and his wife is rotting in a holding cell somewhere in London. He doesn’t care about what he missed or the fact that he had been betrayed. John is here.

 

“So she’s being charged with the assault and attempted murder of Sholto,” Sherlock mused as he watches the flames flicker against John’s hair.

 

“Along with the murder of Bainbridge.” John drops his gaze. “And an account of conspiracy to murder.”

 

“Conspiracy?” Sherlock raises an eyebrow, but he already knows the answer.

 

John meets his gaze. “You, she was planning to kill you.”

 

“That was ambitious of her,” Sherlock says flatly. “By her own hand or was she not getting her hands dirty with that either?”

 

“Her partner, David, didn’t say,” John replies. “I think he was supposed to do it but she got greedy. She wanted you for herself.”

 

“Because she wanted you for herself,” Sherlock offers.

 

John shrugs. “Maybe, I can’t be sure that her feelings for me ran that deep.”

 

Sherlock leans forward, closing the distance between them to a few mere inches. “I am certain that they did. I’ll bet that after she or David killed me, that David would be next. Then she could live the rest of her life with you and the baby.”

 

John smirks. “That baby is not mine. It is David’s. It took everything to look pleased about that. There was no way it could be mine.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “But you lived together and I thought…”

 

John lets out a sigh. “Yes, I did have to make it look real. Luckily, we were so busy with wedding planning, I didn’t have to do it more than a few times after I learned what a terrible person she is. Then, I made certain to protect myself. No, that baby is David’s problem.”

 

Sherlock feels the large boulder left from his chest. He wants to surge forward and press his lips to John’s. Instead, he holds himself in repose. He glances to John’s left hand on his knee.

 

“Where is the ring?” his voice is unusually tight.

 

John gives his knee a squeeze. “Back at the jeweler I borrowed it from. What you saw today was theatre, plain and simple. I am not married to her.”

 

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath. He wants to laugh, cry, sing and dance. He purses his lips.

 

“Was this planned to go down tonight?” he asks.

 

“The plot against you and Bainbridge, yes. We had no idea Sholto was involved until you saved his life. So while Mycroft wasn’t there, he was. He had people watching since we weren’t certain when she was going to make her attempt on you.” John releases Sherlock’s knee and settles back into the chair. “I hoped Mycroft would get enough evidence that I wouldn’t have to be her husband for long.”

 

Sherlock grins. “So...you’re not married?”

 

John’s lips twitch to a smile. “I am not. “ He stands swiftly. “Now Mr. Holmes, did you mean everything in your speech?”

 

“Everything and more,” Sherlock replies breathlessly.

 

John frowns. “I’m quite cross that you missed the last dance.”

 

Sherlock drops his gaze to the empty chair across from him. “I was a fourth wheel on a tricycle.”

John stands before Sherlock and extends his hand. “Can i have that last dance now? Or would it be our first?”

 

“Our?” Sherlock’s mouth has gone bone dry that he can barely swallow his own saliva.

 

“Yes. Mycroft planted a seed that day. He made me see that your gestures were selfless but pained. I finally saw it for myself, and God how I wanted to run to your arms then. That stag night was so hard. I wanted to sink into you in every possible way - and I nearly blew my cover. Thank God Tessa turned up, because my will to not kiss you was crumbling.” John’s words tumble out of his mouth faster than his moving lips. He fidgets nervously, not completely sure Sherlock will take his invitation.

 

“You want this? Me?” Sherlock asks incredulously

 

“For so long. Will you dance with me?” John blinks at the emotion threatening to form in his eyes.

 

Carefully, Sherlock slides his fingers and palm over John’s outstretched hand. The contact creates a visible spark which can be explained with science, but tonight Sherlock believes it is fate giving its blessing. When he stands, he is chest to chest with John.

 

“There’s no music,” Sherlock offers lightly.

 

John reaches into his pocket to pull out his mobile. He flicks open an application and the room fills with a beautiful violin solo.

 

“I wrote this for you and Mary,” Sherlock pales.

 

“I know, but I imagined you wrote just for me,” John whispers.

 

“I did, to be truthful,” Sherlock admits.

 

“Dance with me, Sherlock.” John wraps one arms around Sherlock’s back and pulls him flush to his chest.

 

John’s beating heart matches his own. Sherlock cannot hold back anymore. He does not wrap an arm around John and waltz with him the way they had done days before in preparation for the first dance. Instead, Sherlock cups John’s face for the briefest brush of lips. Instinctively, John opens his mouth, hoping for more than the feather light kiss. Sherlock sees the invitation and dives in, with a press of lips and the tip of his tongue. John’s hum of approval sends Sherlock deeper into the warmth of John’s mouth and tongue. The kiss is slow and a bit tentative at first, becoming noisy and wet as their passion escalates. John’s fingers dig into Sherlock’s morning coat. He’s long forgotten the dance, and he only wants to crawl inside Sherlock’s skin.

 

A firm knock on the door causes them to jump apart like two randy teenagers. It’s too strong for Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft. Their cheeks are flushed and their breath is ragged.

 

“Just a minute,” Sherlock calls uneasily and pulls his morning coat over his noticeable erection.

 

John runs his fingers through his hair and adjusts his own erection.

 

“That was amazing, John,” Sherlock whispers.

 

“No, you are amazing,” John growls and fiercely attacks his lips again. “Get rid of whoever this is, because I need you now.”

 

Sherlock nods enthusiastically. “Of course, definitely.” He wraps on hand around the back on John’s neck and looks deep into eyes so black with desire, he might drown. “I-I love you.”

 

“God, I love you too.”

 

After one more soul shaking kiss, Sherlock smooths down his hair to open the door.

 

In retrospect, it might have been silly to open the door with the knowledge that Mary had wanted him dead. Lust and tight trousers had been the only things floating through his head. But it wasn’t an assassin with a gun or a ticking bomb at the top of the stairs. Instead, a prim woman with ashen sandy hair stands wringing her hands with tear rimmed eyes.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, I presume?” she asks nervously.

 

Sherlock nods. “Yes.”

 

She offers a slender hand. “I’m Lady Smallwood, and I need your help.”

 

Sherlock turns to glance back at John. The sight of his crimson cheeks and fiery gaze set against the fireglow causes every molecule in Sherlock to throb with love and with want.

 

“Are you ready, Dr. Watson?” he purrs.

 

John licks his lips. “Oh God yes!”

 


End file.
